A Metaphoric Siesta

I fell asleep on my couch today.

I'm back home in Kelowna, in the house I grew up in. Everytime I come home something has changed, whether it's the location of furniture, or the color of a wall, or the absence of a tree. This time the most has changed, as my parents are getting ready to move. They painted a hallway, they replaced doors and put up a tree. They traced from the wall where we marked the progression of our height as we grew. This way, we can take it with us, wherever we go.

My family was just doing their own thing today. My mom baked some cookies and my dad shoveled the driveway. My sister and her husband just lay around and watched old episodes of Survivor, catching them up to the season finale that we all could watch as a family tonight. We made deep dish pizza and ate it together, as a family. This afternoon I threw myself into one of Douglas Coupland's novels, Life After God. It's a collection of stories about a postmodern world. One page says nothing but, "You are the first generation to grow up without religion". I knew this, but I never really thought about how badly it's impacted our society. We really are the first generation to be built without a faith system in place. We have the choice, and look at what a choice we've made.

Reading made my head tired, and as the sun set my lighting faded. I was sitting in our upstairs living room, my back to the open window that my dog was staring out of, perched atop two pillow cushions in the corner of this particular loveseat. I put the book down on the coffee table in front of me, rearranged the dog's tail so as to make room for my skull, and took off my glasses. I curled up into a little love seat, six feet fitting into four. My knees protruded far out over the edge of the makeshift bed, but I was balanced and I was tired. As I lay there, I entered into a world of transition; a world between reality and the supernatural.

I wholeheartedly believe that there's more to this world than what I see and hear and touch. There's something beyond us; something that is hardly expressable in anything except symbolic language. I am unable to literally describe what is hidden behind light and objects, all I can do is hope to allude to a metaphor of understanding. I think most people would agree that there's a God, or at least a celestial order or design that is exhibited in the world. Nature is too refined and organized to have been adventitous or inadvertent. Biblically, we believe that the apostle Paul had a "second sight" that could see beyond the current physical realm to something beyond himself. For centuries there have been countless numbers of people who were willing to lay down their present life because of their belief in the future. Something is out there, above and beside us.

As I lay on the couch, my mind played dreams through my head in the style of Douglas Coupland's writing. His disjointed sentences and fragmented narration clearly reflect the postmodern world. My dreams came and went, some were remembered but most were forgotten. The dog left her perch and I rolled from one side to the other. Now my feet were hanging loose, free for predators and assassins to strike. The scarf I was wearing around my neck began to choke and warm me beyond my original intentions, but I was lost in another world. The clock on the wall was my only source of sound besides the constant clatter of family member's movement throughout the house. The quiet drone of the TV downstairs drifted up the stairway to ears that were unwilling to listen.

Perhaps it was because I was reading postmodern literature, but I saw my torporific nap on the couch as a metaphor to how I often live my life. I like to take a backseat in the majority of affairs. I'm not the kind of guy that would willingly step forward in crisis situations to become a leader. I don't grab the reigns of the runaway horse, even if the woman in trouble is beautiful and potentially rewarding. Sometimes things happen that disturb me, that might "push me over the edge", but after a short, brief time of intermittent discomfort, I resume my previous path of self satisfied slumber. The things that I hold to most dearly in life, the things that I believe will keep me warm and safe, are often the things that choke me and slow me down. And sometimes, people will think that my behavior is odd and come to take pictures of me in the fading light of day.

I don't know if I'm reading into coincidental situations like that time I thought I was getting a pony for Christmas, but maybe there's something to this whole unlikely situation. Maybe there's something more to life than simply existing; just waiting for the next day to start so that it can finish. I seem to think it is conceivable that sometimes things happen for a reason, and that we can find reason, truth, understanding and beauty not in the literal, but in symbolic, in the metaphoric, and in the emblematic. I can't define God, but I can read you a fairy tale about Him. I can't grasp ahold of beauty, but I can allude to it. I can't describe my love, but my poems will shout it out.

Egotistic Labor

I must admit, the most recent reaction to my blog has been swelling my already engorged ego. It causes a pleasant rush of endorphins to have nine comments (four of which are fake) in reply to my paltry thoughts. Surely, I say to myself, I am an important person.

Today I spent the majority of my time steam cleaning. I cleaned the carpets of my college's Columbia Hall, the local residence for female students. I will not lie, it is weird to be in their place of residence, normally locked down with key, pass card, and numberpad to prevent the atrocious and overbearing attacks of male pubescent boys. The spring air brings not aromatic wisps of love, it seems, but rape hangs heavy. Except for between 12 and 8 every other Sunday, where the gates are temporarily opened to the unsuspecting masses and where chemistry and biology are closely monitored. Yet here I am, walking freely amongst the skeletons and tumbleweed of an otherwise unoccupied citadel of death.

So the process of steam cleaning, as it was explained to me, is "not hard". He certainly wasn't lying. What he forgot to mention, however, was that this process not only involves what is, essentially, a wet vacuum, but that it inadvertently also sucks my soul. The high pitched whine of the two, count them, two vacuum engines is combined with the dull low roar of the spray pump. This enveloping sonority reaches through my oral canal to effectively disassemble my humanity. Beyond that, the motion of this banausic task has become a 50's film projector, complete with scarred and tearing frames, looping endlessly the seven seconds it takes to steam clean one three foot line of blue carpet. This archaic visual aid plays from behind my eyes, the clatter of the reels drumming through my skull, flashing its nightmare onto the back of my eyelids.

I must get to bed, I have to steam clean some more carpet tomorrow.

By the way, my thesaurus has become my new Bible. I read it more often.

Embrace the Adjective

This is Alan with too much time on his hands.

Essentially over the last four months I've had this little thing called "Post Secondary Education" distracting me from the responsibilities of my blog. As my friend Rachel used to point out in her link to my blog, quite bluntly, "doesn't blog very often and won't get a more descriptive title until he does". Well, that was true. I've been quite reticent to blog recently mostly for time purposes. I spent the majority of my day thinking and writing, so why would I bother continuing to think and write when I instead have the opportunity to sit back and relax while watching mindless explosions?

However, seeing as school is finished (and I did rather well. Of the three classes I've gotten final marks back from, I've got straight A's. I haven't had that since elementary school) I have plenty of time on my hands to sit back and think; to reflect upon the world as I perceive it.

Last night I watched the movie "Dead Poets Society", featuring Robin Williams. I had seen it before, but this time I think I was better able to appreciate the message and/or themes of the film. One of the most obvious ideas that stems from this film is the idea of "Carpe Diem", or "seize the day". I'm not sure if this is the original that we're introduced to this Latin term, but it certainly has become an iconic moment in movie history, being parodied in various films since it's inception. Clearly the idea here is the encouragement for young boys to get what they want in life, and if they can't, blow their brains out.

Actually the thing I found most beautiful was the section where the main characters finally enter into Keating's English class, where he tantalizes them with this quick monologue:

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"

We live to read and write poetry. What is it about the rhyming verse that touches our soul? Is there some hidden deeper beating of our hearts that is inaudible to the ear and insensible by the hand? Why, when I think of love, can I only paint pictures in my mind using the vocabulary that I've been breed to use? I must learn more words to begin to comprehend the vast entirety of this deep emotion that beats beneath my ribs; an unquenchable yearning for an intimacy so beyond myself it pricks at my skin to think about it.

Later on in the film this exact thought is played out between Keating and one of his pupils:

Keating: A man is not "very tired". He is exhausted. Don't use "very sad." Use, come on Mr. Overstreet, you twerp.

Knox: Morose?

Keating: Exactly. "Morose." Language was developed for one endeavor, and that is, Mr. Anderson. Come on, are you a man or an amoeba? Mr. Perry.

Neil: Uh, to communicate?

Keating: Nooo!! To woo women!

I cannot express the love that I have using biophysics. I am unable to dance out my desire to be intimate. One is too austere, the other too recondite. Language, somehow, captures the best of the abstract and the literal, combining them through simile and metaphor. Embrace the adjective, express your love.

The Christmas Bus

I'm sitting here in my apartment, with the curtains open. It's 10 minutes until 5 o'clock, and the sky is dark. There's just the last hints of blues that I can perceive near the mountains to the north of me, mostly hidden by the reflection of my dinning room chandelier. Behind me, my hide-away couch has revealed itself, and the comforting sight of a soft soaring eagle tempts me to curl up within it. I am seated upon a stool, the only object the right height and width that can fit between my living room bed and the wooden desk this keyboard sits upon. It is less than fully comfortable.

I'm sitting here thinking about all the things that I could've done with my day. I'm thinking about the people that I could've called and forced to hang out with me. I'm thinking about the book that I could've read, the letter I could've written, or the newbies I could have fragged. I'm thinking about how my whole day has been waiting for three people to call, whom I called first, who said that they were wanting to spend time with me today. I'm thinking about the TV shows I watched while I waited.

As I sit and think, I stare outside, my back hunched and growing sore. This stool is lacking in back support, and I lack in self discipline to sit up straight. The headlights of vehicles momentarily allow me the view of white and yellow painted lines. In one moment, a public city bus drives by. This bus has been decorated with Christmas cheer. Antlers adore the front and center of this fantastical contraption, alluding to none other than the red-nosed reindeer. The large shatter resistant windows on either side are bordered with blue and yellow lights, glistening and glowing in the freezing night air. From the outside, it appears like four quick dancing squares gleefully float past my view. From the inside, I'm sure, the added light causes reflection of the interior back to the passenger and driver alike. I'm forced to wonder if the accident rate of the public transportation system rises in the advent season. Anything else they see from inside must surely be tainted too blue and too bright.

It's interesting to consider the measures humanity goes through to celebration the passing of time. How much money is spent buying presents for other people that they may or may not fully enjoy? How much time is spent redecorating restaurants, houses, and city streets for three weeks of the year? What would happen if I forgot Christmas was December 25th and it slipped past, unnoticed? Would I feel a sense of loss, knowing that only 19 of my 20 December 25ths were spent reflecting on my presents and home cooked brunch, or would I simply shrug and say, "Oh well, I'll catch the next one", like the skytrain to Main Street.

Alas, one might argue that the Christmas/Advent season is about remembering the coming of Christ, and perhaps even the second coming as predicted by Stephen Colbert. I personally question whether or not Jesus would have supported exchanging hundred dollar gifts with other members of your upper-middle class white North American family or if he would have spent Christmas Day with the homeless in downtown Vancouver. Or whether he would have voted in favor of passing whichever bylaw allows public buses to "spread holiday cheer" like the Who's down in Whoseville.

To Say A Goodbye

So I haven't been blogging much recently. As discovered the other night by those who ask, I usually only feel the urge to write when I feel tired, lonely, or depressed. It is safe to say that I have not felt such things for quite some time now. For me, the tantalizing emotional state of utter pain and sorrow becomes my askesis to initiate the writing process. Like Jonah in the whale, I am forced to spend endless amounts of time contemplating all that is meaningless and lost.

However, thirty three days ago I was made privy to the continual company of one Lori Kuepfer, ex-Amish, current "qt_pie", Outdoor Leadership, God-rockin' babe in who's presence my fears and depression shudder. They flee, taking with them common sense and my manhood. I would now best describe myself as a little school girl, complete with plaid skirt and knee high socks, giddy for the chance to learn enough English to comprehend the Power Puff girls.

These past few weeks have been hard weeks, as final projects and final exams have arisen together to unite against my anti-stress devices. It was a long and drawn out, arduous battle that climaxed yesterday with two difficult finals who's end result could only be comparable with that of the first time I attempted to make Kraft's Dinner, who really should make his own. Edible, digestible, and given the circumstances passable, but certainly not pretty, and most assuredly not tasty.

Kindly note the mention of circumstance, in many other dimensions known as laughable excuses. The night previous (Wednesday) was the last night I was going to see the aforementioned Lori, and it was this same night that her brother was to be sleeping on my couch, beginning at 11PM, the prime studying hour for all of us that wish to merely cram short-term notes into our minds seconds before they expire in order to convincingly fool the professor who so desperately wishes to see our hearts and minds changed. Of course that information was not made known to me until approximately 11:15PM, when I returned from walking Lori to her house, where I picked up Arlan, her brother's things for the next morning.

One might ask why he, the brother, did not accompany us to her place of dwelling, but surely that question could be answered by anyone who's seen two love-sick rabbits scurrying from prying flashlights beneath the bushes. One may be curious, but one does not wish to interfere. As we've only been dating for almost five weeks, a three week separation seems to have no less than the word catastrophe stamped impressionably upon it. We walked slowly, gracefully, solemnly, through the dimly lit parking lot. We were hushed by the inevitable. We reached her door, I stepped inside briefly so that I might take up information for the contact procedures to be undertaken while this forced separation must occur. We spoke in timid, haltering tones, convincing ourselves that surely this would not be as long as it is perceived. I opened the door to leave, she followed me halfway out. I stood in the cold, dark, and windy night, feeling the rain hit the cement sidewalk behind me. She stood upon the frame of the door, two inches closer to my chin that usual. Standing close together, breaching the separation from interior to exterior, she rested her head upon my chest, her eyes downcast. I kissed the top of her hair and sighed softly. We murmured unrepeatable loveliness, and I stepped back and away, into the night. Six steps away from her door the urban hardened ground turns sharply away from her sight, and I step into the dark.

I pause, call out to Lori, and go back and get her brother's dufflebag which I forgot. This time when I leave, it isn't as epic.

But I'm still sad.